


Oak 'round which the woodbine winds

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Beltane, Bondage, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Javert's Confused Boner, M/M, Maypole shenanigans, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 11:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18690748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: Javert’s nostrils flared; here was an old trail which propriety had insisted he abandon, revealing itself anew at the most unexpected of times. He looked the Mayor in the eye, and Madeleine wet his lips.“Well then,” said Javert, his words slow and deliberate. “That is nothing so terrible. Surely one who has already gone to great lengths for his town could not object to such a minor discomfort. And did not Monsieur Mayor already express a wish to bring his people joy?”Or:Madeleine gets tied to a maypole while Inspector Javert watches.(Epilogue is yet unpublished but chapter one stands well on its own)





	Oak 'round which the woodbine winds

**Author's Note:**

> Copious thanks to Akatonbo, Ias, and BreadThief for the cheerleading, advice, and general shouted encouragement. <3 This idea came to me last Beltane, but I only just got around to writing it. There will be a short-ish epilogue, but the story can stand on its own as-is.

The arrival of spring in Montreuil-sur-Mer was heralded with much gladness from her inhabitants, whom, it could be said, were accustomed to the cold and damp of winter but did not profess to enjoy it. As the sunlight returned day by day to the world, little creeks and rivers which had before been reduced to bare rock now rushed near to overflowing with snowmelt. The woods were painted with a wash of green as the beeches and oak trees budded with leaves, and in the meadows it was not uncommon to see young maidens plucking lily of the valley to gift their sweethearts.

In the whole town, the invigorating effects of spring’s return were to go uncelebrated by only one man. That man was called Inspector Javert; the title was synonymous with the name, and nobody could say for certain whether the latter were his family’s or his given appellation. The only consensus was that no-one was about to ask him and find out.

Inspector Javert was the sort of man whom the seasons did not seem to touch. He wore the same storm grey frock coat with the same black leather gloves whether it were driving rains or sleet or the hottest day of summer. He also wore the same scowl, and had never been seen to take pleasure in a fresh breeze off the sea, nor smile at the glimpse of a spotted fawn trailing after its mother.

In fact, it appeared that there was one thing, and one alone, which brought Javert any pleasure at all, and this was to deliver justice upon the trouble-makers and lawbreakers of that remote coastal city. It was in the snick of handcuffs around the wrists of a belligerent cutpurse that Javert would don an expression of satisfaction, a certain upward grimace of the lips which did nothing to soften the harshness of his features.

All of this is why it came as such a surprise to the townsfolk when Inspector Javert appeared at the edge of the clearing to be used for Montreuil’s May Day festivities. He carried himself like a bowstring, drawn and ready to fire, and the grim look upon his face did not suggest he intended to partake in the celebrations. Javert’s eyes studied the clearing with a keen acuteness and he took in every detail: the tables, laden with food; the citizens, wearing their Sunday best and laughing as a band played in the background; the children, running and skipping in the grass; the oak tree, stately and tall and ringed by posies of fresh flowers strewn across its thick, snaking roots.

In the center of the crowd was a man about whom the others flocked like sheep to a shepherd. His dark curls and fine, if somewhat unfashionable attire set him apart as M. Madeleine. Javert picked him out at once, the Inspector’s expression becoming if anything more dour. Madeleine turned; unerringly, his eyes landed on Javert’s face, and Javert’s hand twitched involuntarily. Aloof as he ever was, Madeleine glanced away, visibly making his excuses to the townsfolk besieging him for attention. The crowd parted obligingly, and Javert straightened his ramrod posture further yet as the man came forward to speak with him.

“Inspector Javert,” said Madeleine, extending his hand.

“Monsieur Mayor.” The Inspector bent at the waist no more and no less than was prescribed out of deference to a superior. His hands, held behind him at parade rest, did not rise to shake the Mayor’s and after a moment, Madeleine’s arm fell limply back to his side. “I was told to find you here.”

“Ah, forgive me, Javert.” Madeleine ran a hand absently through his hair, the smile touching his lips one which was both as mild and as distant as the ones he offered to the rest of the townsfolk. For reasons he could not articulate, the sight set Javert’s teeth on edge. “It quite slipped my mind to inform you of my absence.”

Javert’s voice when he replied was nothing shy of courteous, though the slight curl of his lip was suggestive of a certain unspoken disdain. “The Mayor is of course at liberty to go where he pleases.”

A curious shadow passed over Madeleine’s face at that, too quickly to parse. “Was there something that you wanted, Inspector?”

“My report, Monsieur,” Javert answered. He held Madeleine’s gaze unblinkingly, and at last it was the Mayor who looked away.

“Forgive me,” the Mayor said again, now fumbling to adjust his cravat. “I regret to say my attentions are required elsewhere this morning. Lefebre broke his leg in an accident last week at the mill, and the people have not been able to find another to take his place. They turned to me for help, and I cannot refuse them.”

Now Javert did not bother to hide his contempt. “A pious man such as yourself, playing at heathen pageantry? I did not foresee it.” He cast half a glance at the tree, where even as he spoke, a woman was directing two men on ladders to lift high a rope tied with dozens of long streaming ribbons and lash it around the body of the trunk.

A cheer went up from the onlookers as the swathes of silk unfurled, fluttering on the breeze in a hundred colors. It seemed as though every tailor in Montreuil had emptied their stores for this one purpose. The sunlight filtering through the arms of the oak cast long bars of shadow across the grass, the ribbons shining with luster where the golden rays touched them.

“See there,” said Madeleine, the smile returning to his face as easily as though it had never left. “Very pretty. Come, Javert, even the church cannot object to this ‘pageantry’, as you call it. It brings the people joy, and they are all the more industrious for it. I should think you would count this a good thing.”

“Hmph.” The Inspector opened his mouth to reply, unconvinced, but was interrupted by the young wife of the millener who appeared then at Madeleine’s side. Her face was flushed with embarrassment as she tugged upon the Mayor’s sleeve; embarrassment, Javert thought, and perhaps other, less decorous thoughts. There were rumors enough about Madeleine’s private habits, and the Inspector could not help but wonder how much effort the townsfolk had made in order to find a suitable replacement to Lefebre.

“They are ready for you, M’sieur le Mayor,” the woman said sweetly, and Madeleine graced her with one of his beatific, impersonal smiles.

“Thank you, Madame,” he said. Looking back at Javert, he added, “If you will excuse me, Inspector.”

The Mayor followed after the hatmaker's wife into the sea of people, and Javert hummed with a general discontent. It was the Mayor’s right to postpone their meeting and yet it made his instincts prickle like a hound which has scented a fox circling the chicken coop. In Madeleine’s absence, the Inspector surveyed the clearing with the stern manner of a policeman. It was clear that Madeleine had invested in no security for this festival of the town’s, and Javert’s expression darkened. It was only a matter of time until one of the _gamins_ realized there were pockets ripe for the picking, and then no citizen’s belongings would be safe.

Folding his arms to his chest, Javert lifted his chin to bark at one particularly rambunctious child when a scene unfolding at the edge of his periphery drew his attention. Turning, the Inspector beheld a strange thing: M. Madeleine, usually more accommodating than was appropriate for a man of his station, appeared to be engaged in an argument with the very same woman who had led him away. Though this was certainly noteworthy in its own right, for Madeleine always displayed a suspiciously even temper, the Inspector’s eyes were also drawn to the woman’s hands which held a long coil of rope. Javert’s eyes flickered from the rope back to the Mayor’s flushed, almost panicked face. Intrigued, Javert moved closer.

“- to offend, Madame, but surely there must be some other who could do this thing for you,” Madeleine was saying, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides, wearing creases in his pressed trousers.

“Your pardon, Monsieur, but there is not,” the woman, who was called Claudette, replied in apparent distress. “Those not suffering still from winter fevers must drive their livestock through the purifying smoke in the fields, or they seek to join the dancing themselves and make a wish for the blessing of children. I assure you I have made inquiries, but there are none else willing to make that sacrifice.”

Dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief, the Mayor shook his head adamantly. “That is all very well,” said Madeleine, “but must you -”

“Is there a problem?”

At the Inspector’s gravelly tones, Claudette jumped, clutching her breast in surprise, but it was Madeleine’s face that Javert watched. Under his reddened cheeks, Madeleine went pale, his eyes widening as he swiveled to face the Inspector.

“Inspector,” he said, a slight breathlessness catching in his voice. “No problem, no.”

Javert bared his teeth in what did not pass for a smile. “Monsieur Mayor. If this woman is bothering you, I shall escort her from the premises.”

“No, no.” Madeleine waved his hand in vague dismissal, schooling his expression into submission. “The fault is mine. I fear I... was not entirely informed of the role being asked of me when I agreed to perform it, and caused a fuss. My apologies, Madame,” he added, inclining his hat to the girl.

“This ‘rite of spring’,” said Javert, tipping his head back. “What is it?” He squinted up at the oak tree, wreathed in a kaleidoscope of ribbons. The trunk was so wide in girth that four grown men could have wrapped their arms around it.  

It was Claudette who replied, wringing her hands as she looked uncertainly between the Mayor and Inspector. “It is a common enough practice in the north. The Inspector has seen a maypole danced before, I shouldn’t doubt?” Claudette did not suggest Javert had ever participated in such an activity himself; the very notion was absurd.

When Javert only regarded her impassively, the woman stammered on, “We use a tree to the same end, Monsieur. And a man of the town binds himself to it, so that the others may dance for fertility and good fortune...” She trailed off as Javert maintained his silence, a furious blush rising to her cheeks.

As Claudette looked at her feet, Javert turned back to Madeleine. The Mayor was watching him carefully, his posture belonging to one poised for flight. Javert’s nostrils flared; here was an old trail which propriety had insisted he abandon, revealing itself anew at the most unexpected of times. He looked the Mayor in the eye, and Madeleine wet his lips.

“Well then,” said Javert, his words slow and deliberate. “That is nothing so terrible. Surely one who has already gone to great lengths for his town could not object to such a minor discomfort. And did not Monsieur Mayor already express a wish to bring his people joy?”

No words ever sounded less joyful, yet Madeleine nodded. A resignation had come over him, and Javert thrilled in that slight victory as the Mayor’s shoulders drooped and his eyes turned downcast.

“Very well,” Madeleine sighed. “Lead on, Madame.”

The Inspector stood rigidly in place as Claudette took the Mayor deeper into the oak tree’s shadow. With Madeleine’s back to him, Javert’s eyes mapped the features of the man’s figure: the broad shoulders of a laborer, the arms too well-toned with muscle to ever look completely at ease in gentlemen’s clothes, the bad leg with its slight limp as though Madeleine were accustomed to dragging a heavy weight. All of these Javert had noticed before; noticed and investigated, only to be frustrated at every turn by information which did not seem to exist. Perhaps at last he was to learn something worthwhile; Javert found himself waiting with eager anticipation, the dog on the scent once more.

No sooner did Madeleine reach the foot of the tree than he was surrounded by other attendants to the ceremony. The coil of rope was tied around his wrist—over his shirtsleeve, Javert noted, not under where it would rest against bare skin—and stretched around the trunk’s circumference. Then Madeleine was pressed gently back against the bark, his arms spread eagle so that his other wrist might be tied. Held taut by the rope, Madeleine balanced on a bulging root and appeared to take a steadying breath.

A call went up from the attendants, and the sound of the crowd changed as the people drew closer to the tree, each catching hold of a ribbon on the breeze. The Inspector stayed put, just beyond the two concentric rings which now were forming. Somewhere, a drum began to beat slow and steady, like a heartbeat. In the center of the circle, Madeleine raised his head.

Their eyes locked. Like this, Madeleine was helpless; or, not helpless, Javert reasoned, for he had seen the Mayor lift a cart off a dying man, but caught fast in a web of his own devising and here was Javert to witness it. The Inspector was filled with a smug triumph. And why was he smug? Was it not true that this was a figure of authority, to whom he was obliged to show respect? Yet it was also true that there was much about M. Mayor which raised his hackles, which teased at a hidden, illicit past. One thing was certain: guilty or innocent, Madeleine was a fool for agreeing to this.

The pounding of the drums was echoed in the drum of blood in Javert’s ears. As the attendants called instructions to their quarters he felt it, a heavy pulse throbbing in his head as though he had drunk too much wine. The dancers began to sway, women on the innermost circle, the men outside. Javert stood apart in his own third circle, though he held something far more precious than ribbon. He held Madeleine’s gaze like a chain, one which he was unwilling to break.

Signalled perhaps by the charged atmosphere, the drums beat faster. The dancers began their movements, hesitantly at first but rising to keep tempo with the music. It was chaos, a mad ducking and weaving in and out as the participants braided together their ribbons with their desires. The lengths of fabric flashed in every hue as they embraced the tree in a sheath of silk. Laughter and scraps of verse floated over the gathering, but it faded to a dull roar in Javert’s hearing.

Where he stood pinioned, Madeleine’s chest heaved. Javert possessed no name for the sentiment glowing in the man’s eyes—for a moment, it felt uncomfortably close to the images the Inspector had seen carved into crucifixes, and his mind skittered away from the thought before it could take—but surely this was a sign that he was right to suspect. His intuition meant naught without proof, he knew. Still, there was more to the Mayor than met the eye—yes, there had to be, or else why should his sides heave like a draft horse from the exertion of standing still? The bonds upset him, that much was clear.

With every circuit around the tree, the dancers closed in. The ribbons responded in kind, gliding down the trunk in mesmerizing patterns. They twisted like a fantastical vine, reaching for Madeleine with silken tendrils. It seemed that it was no time at all before they were skimming against his curls and the Mayor had to shake them loose. Javert found he waited with bated breath. He frowned at himself for that; such behavior was improper.

Then, inevitably, the first ribbon crossed Madeleine’s face that he could not brush away. It was a brilliant green stripe, livid against the man’s pallor. It tightened, drawing his head firmly back against the wood of the oak, and the sight caused a strange drop in Javert’s belly. That first ribbon was soon joined by a second, and then a third—orange and yellow, crisscrossing over his throat and lashing Madeleine in place.

Madeleine did not struggle. That, Javert thought dimly, was the most miraculous thing. A man ‘like that’—and he did not specify to himself what he meant—should surely want to struggle. But Madeleine permitted the ribbons to fall where they may, never letting his eyes stray from Javert’s face. Javert had long since memorized those eyes with all their subtleties. He had watched them go from wide with terror to weary and beaten to something which almost approached acceptance. Now he found a new emotion there; Madeleine’s eyes grew dark, his flush traveling all the way down his neck.

Javert watched a black ribbon press into the firmness of the Mayor’s shoulder, puckering his overcoat. The Inspector’s hands curled at his sides, itching to reach out and touch, to feel that powerful body immobilized. And how easy it would be then, to open the man’s shirt and examine his chest for evidence of his falsehood. Javert swallowed; his mouth felt too dry.

The ribbons bound Madeleine’s arms, holding him more firmly to the tree. Madeleine twitched—for a moment it seemed to meant to struggle after all. The moment passed, and Madeleine went boneless, limp and unresisting. His surrender did something to the Inspector—the pulse of what he had taken for satisfaction sank into the pit of his stomach and lower, a hot, burning need to see that false Mayor brought to justice. The need tented the front of his trousers, fortuitously hidden by the folds of his greatcoat.

It occurred to Javert to wonder whether it showed on his face how affected he had become. The dancers were an insentient blur in Javert’s thoughts, but Madeleine watched him ceaselessly. Did he know? Was it possible that this was deliberate, an attempt to humiliate him before half the town? Or perhaps it was the ceremony itself that made his blood burn, burn like it would set him ablaze if he did not grab a fistful of Madeleine’s cravat and... He did not finish the thought.

It also occurred to Javert how close he had just come to thinking of Madeleine by another name. He could not allow that to happen, not when he was still uncertain. And given his current state... no, Javert would not give a name to the direction of his thoughts. He would not shame them both with that disrespect.

The dancers crouched, something animal entering their steps as the slack in their hands played out and shortened. Madeleine shifted on his feet, and Javert’s eyes were drawn to how the ribbons flexed and strained over his thighs. It was indecent, Javert thought, swallowing. He could not have been the only one to notice. And now that he _had_ noticed... It was impossible not to think on it, on how every slight adjustment of Madeleine’s legs caused the rainbow material to bulge. Indecent, he thought again. The strain in his trousers was becoming uncomfortable. Had he been alone in his room he might have rocked against the heel of his hand—Javert’s ears grew hot at the realization this image might haunt him at night for years to come—but as it stood there was also a pleasure in denying himself. And besides; his hand was not the touch he desired.

Close to Madeleine’s feet, the dancers weaved the last of their threads as the drumbeat intensified to its climax. A cry went up—it was finished, the ancient oak tree wound top to bottom in a myriad of colors, textures, and in the center the Mayor of their little city stood bound like a lamb upon the sacrificial altar. The attendants gathered the loose ends into a single loop to tie tightly, and there the ceremony was concluded. Javert’s eyes narrowed as Madeleine seemed to sag slightly in relief, a feeling of irritation prickling at him. If Madeleine thought that was the end of it, he would find himself sorely mistaken.

The attendants spoke their words of blessing over the dancers, still laughing, still exhilarated. Gradually, the people were ushered away, led by the promise of a potluck meal bolstered by the Mayor’s own stores of food. In their wake, the trampled grass and scattered flowers were left behind as attestation to what had transpired, and the glade quieted.

When all were cleared away, there remained Javert standing erect in the grass and Madeleine, bound to the tree. Beyond, the townsfolk were gathered at long tables. They would wine and dine before vanishing in pairs to go a-Maying in the fields, but Javert cared nothing for them. All his purpose was fixed on Madeleine, whose eyes had not strayed from the Inspector’s face once throughout the entirety of the rite.

Taking long, leisurely strides, Javert approached. When he stood perhaps an arm’s length away, Madeleine let out a strained laugh.

“I do not suppose you would mind untying me?” the man asked. His hair was mussed, and Javert was gripped by a sudden urge to smooth the unruly curls.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Javert rumbled lowly. Madeleine’s lip trembled; Javert’s gaze flickered to it before returning to the man’s face. The green ribbon was still crossed over his cheek, dimpling the Mayor’s flushed skin.

Javert took another step closer, and then another. When they stood toe to toe, he stopped. Madeleine’s eyes were wide and dark—with fear? or with some other emotion?—but he did not repeat his question nor did the Inspector lift a hand to assist. After all, Madeleine had not ordered Javert to untie him.

That dizzying pulse still pounded in his head, and lower down. Madeleine voiced no objection as Javert leaned closer yet—and was that not an admission of guilt, if the man could not even summon the authority to chastise him for behaving so boldly? Then Javert raised a gloved hand, and Madeleine shivered as the Inspector very lightly caressed his cheek.

“Monsieur Mayor.” The words were mocking, and also slightly breathless. The need between his legs had become almost unbearable, but Javert refused to acknowledge it. It was far more satisfying to watch Madeleine’s eyes go wider still as he hooked his finger under the ribbon upon his cheek, sliding it downwards until it slipped into the hollow of the man’s mouth. Then Madeleine was staring at him, agape slightly with astonishment. The green silk turned dark as the Mayor’s tongue pressed against it, and Javert shuddered. The meaning was implicit: Madeleine was to be silent for this... whatever _this_ was. But if the Inspector expected to meet resistance, he was again surprised. Madeleine did not offer to much as a sound of protest.

Taking a step back, Javert allowed his gaze license to wander. Madeleine could only have noticed, if the renewed flush darkening his complexion were any indication, but even so the Mayor did not look away abashed. It was the defiance of the unruly prisoner, Javert thought, though a quieter, more indulgent thought whispered that it could also be the look of a man affected as intimately as Javert himself was. The ribbons hugged Madeleine’s form in the most tantalizing of ways, the shape of powerful thighs and biceps outlined in suggestive detail. It was perhaps well that the citizens of Montreuil remained within shouting distance; had they been entirely alone, the Inspector might have taken it upon himself to trace the path of each vibrant stripe with his fingers, with his mouth.

“Do you regret it?” Javert asked softly. “Putting yourself in this position?”

Obedient to the unspoken rules of this game they were playing, Madeleine did not attempt to answer, merely panted against the material covering his mouth. The Inspector reached out, finding Madeleine’s hand where it was bound against the bark. Slipping between the ribbons, Javert swiped the leather thumb of his glove over the Mayor’s palm, and Madeleine took a breath that sounded like a sob. At once, Javert looked over sharply; the look on the man’s face was one of desperation, like he might beg if he were allowed, and some of the gloating triumph returned to Javert’s manner as he came close once more.

“How badly you want this,” said Javert, the throb of his groin a pointed reminder that he, too, wanted. His voice little more than a sibilant hiss, the Inspector continued, “If I had ordered you bound thus, I would have had you stripped first.”

Madeleine made a noise in the back of his throat—a whimper or a moan, it was unclear.

Javert cupped the back of the man’s neck. “What sins would be bared for all to see then, I wonder?”

His fingers dipped down below Madeleine’s cravat and immediately the man froze as Javert stroked the delicate skin of his throat. Were those the ridges of old scars beneath his fingertips? Javert could not be sure; the gloves dulled his sense of touch, while the heady state of arousal confused the clarity of his mind. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking it when Madeleine swallowed thickly, and the Inspector wondered what would happen if he dared taste the pulse fluttering at the hollow of Madeleine’s neck.

Withdrawing his hand before he could yield to that temptation, Javert settled for standing as close as he was able without quite touching, resting his hand upon the surface of the tree trunk. He could feel the heat of Madeleine’s body like a furnace, like the burning sun as it glances off the sea, and it occurred to him that he must feel the same. How aware of his vulnerability Madeleine must have been in that moment, yet he neither spoke nor tried to win free.

Javert inhaled—Madeleine smelled like sweat and soap and something which reminded Javert of the dusty factory floor. For a moment he was transported, seeing himself standing in Madeleine’s office with Madeleine bent over his desk like this, still tied, still quiet, still—and here Javert needed only glance down to confirm the reality of it—achingly aroused.

Before he could think better of it, Javert let his other hand come to rest upon the Mayor’s hip. As his fingers curled between the ribbons, pressing into firm but yielding flesh, Madeleine's eyes fluttered closed—the better to bear the humiliation, Javert supposed. Madeleine was shaking like a leaf, his breathing heavy. There was a red ribbon which traveled from the man’s hip across his thigh, and Javert followed its path with his fingertips. When he brushed upon the inside seam of the Mayor’s trousers, Madeleine shuddered, his hips lifting as much as the ribbons would allow.

It would not be so far a fall from here, Javert thought. It was simply the next logical step to take his superior in hand and wring this terrible pleasure from them both. Yet once crossed, that was a boundary which could not be walked away from. And if this man were what Javert suspected...

Madeleine had bitten down hard on his lip, turning it red and swollen. It glistened with a wetness that he was powerless to wipe away, and so Javert withdrew a handkerchief and carefully swiped it over Madeleine’s mouth. This he then returned to his pocket, and took a deliberate step back.

Madeleine’s eyes flew open.

“Monsieur Mayor,” said Javert, a smirk tugging at his lips even as his body screamed in frustration. “I shall see you tomorrow mid-afternoon to deliver my weekly report, seeing as how you are otherwise indisposed.”

Madeleine continued to stare at him, his expression gradually becoming one of horror as it dawned on him that Javert did not intend to finish what he had started. It demanded all the Inspector’s fraying self-control not to give in to his desire, but he exercised what remained of it mercilessly. It would either be that Madeleine broke or he did, and Javert had no ambitions of breaking.

Forcing himself to walk with steady stride, Javert did an about-face and began to trudge in the opposite direction. At every turn, he expected to hear Madeleine call out an order to release him—from his bonds or his baser needs, Javert would have been unsurprised by either—but all was silent. Instead, he could feel Madeleine’s gaze boring into the back of his head, and for the first time, the shadow of doubt crossed his mind. If he were wrong, if Madeleine were the upstanding, albeit vexing, man he appeared to be, then the Inspector had all but damned himself and his career with that display.

However... Javert straightened his collar, despite that his uniform had never struck him as fitting too tightly before. Madeleine conveyed neither anger nor distaste for Javert’s advances, despite that a proper authority would have done so. Javert was reminded suddenly that he had promised to stand in Madeleine’s presence the following day, and a tremor ran through him. If Madeleine chose to discipline him, well, the Inspector could think of ways to show the correct deference to a superior. And if he did not then it would be differently telling, though Javert was unprepared to dwell upon what, exactly, it would tell him.

The Inspector found the path to the main road and grimaced. Walking back to town had never seemed a less appealing prospect. With a sigh, he started down the dirt track and tried to ignore the chafing of his trousers. He did not entirely succeed, and nor could he shake the feeling of Madeleine’s cheek, trembling under his hand.


End file.
